The Electronic Marketplace
So in the course of my little mini-vacation, I’ve been reading up on the business end of the world of internet publishing, as part of the whole freak-out mode of, “Oh crap the economy’s going for a global swirly and WTF do we all do about it?” Because like it or not (and I’m not crazy about it, because I’m one of those writers who sees writing as an art and a gift and an incredibly awesome present to be able to do every day more than a business), I’m part of the world of e-commerce, so I have to figure out how the system works, why it won’t continue to work, and what’s the next new system that will work, along with how can I position my small part of that system to keep the bill collectors at a respectful distance. And since I’m not a CEO of a failing bank, any wrong guesses I make will not see multimillion-dollar bonus rewards.
I’ve been reading a lot of tech blogs, since as a longtime geek, I’m more comfortable with the Silicon Valley side of things, rather than the Madison Avenue end. I’ve read Cory Doctorow’s thoughts, and a few of his books, too. I’m reading Lawrence Lessig right now, in an attempt to better understand, and maybe envision, a way that the wild, wild west spirit of the internets simultaneously shatters conventional business practices and yet seems so easily killed by them. And what it will all mean to the artist–the author, the musician, the photographer, the graphic designer, the creative-class whose “product” is so easily convertible to new paradigms, and so ripe for being taken advantage of in those new paradigms. Traditionally, the artist has labored under some version of patronage, whether it be a single individual or small group bankrolling an 18th century poet–keeping him in quills and parchment and a meal or two every so often in exchange for odes to the Patron’s largesse, philosophy, or skill with the ladies; or the distributed patronage of our current system of royalties from sales. Both these systems force the artist to walk fine lines between commercialism and artistic vision–directing the art towards serving either the patron or the self, but never fully one or the other. Of course, the bottom line is not “is my artistic vision as a writer free and unfettered,” but more, “can I continue to feed my spawn through this super-awesome job of making shit up and writing it down and showing it to other people.”
Now, I’ll be honest here. I’m of two minds on this. One part of me says, “Hell yes, I want to be the next Nora Roberts or Jenny Crusie. Hell yes, I want those six- and seven-figure advances and be able to whistle a sweet little tune of avarice every time I step into the shower.” The other part of me simply wants enough to keep my kids in shoes, keep the bill collectors off my damn lawn, and have a little extra left over for ebook downloads at the end of the month, while the accolades and maybe just a little bit of fame swirl around my ankles, occasionally rising to knee- and maybe thigh-level when I do something extraordinary. Just enough to give me a warm feeling, not enough to turn me batshit-crazy because I can’t handle the fame and the pressure. The question is–are either of these two scenarios feasible if digital book file sharing is in play?
Now the first thing off the bat that I want to say about this is–I want to table the discussion on the morality of file sharing for now. I see it falling into the same broad category as after-market swaps of other goods, in spite of its virtuality. I see both sides of the argument and find points of agreement in both. But the bottom line is that with as much resources as any industry spends on crushing its undermarket, there will always be in existence that same undermarket. Crack down on electronic file sharing and you get someone scanning in a print book. Crack down on scanners, and some enterprising soul with time on their hands will hand-type the whole damn thing into a file. Cut off their fingers and they will memorize it, recite it word-for-word, and perform free for either podcast or live performance, even if it’s to just a handful of other people. People are creative, and that’s not going to change. Possession is partly a consensus of perception. So with that in mind, how can an artist still find recompense for sharing his or her work with other people? Does art have tangible value that can be used to generate sustainable artistry (ie, enough for an artist to live on so that s/he can continue to create)? And the multi-part question that asks, is the value of that art diminished by the undermarket, in what ways, and in what ways is it or can it be enhanced by that undermarket?
My instinct is to say that file sharing is part of human nature (there will always be somebody looking for sumpin’ for nuthin’), and that a system of success means working with that aspect of human nature rather than in opposition to it. Like the US’s idiotic “abstinence only” sex-education policy that completely disregards humanity’s formidable biological urge to fuck like bunnies humans and thinks that overblown horror stories, promise rings, and the vague threat of the belief that a big beard in the sky will shake a finger at you is going to block the urge of millions of years of successful evolution (which doesn’t require belief to exist, happen, and keep happening as we speak). I’d rather work with that, or work around it, than butt my head up against it in futility.
The question of how to do that is anybody’s guess. Doctorow et al are doing important and creative experiments with literature, Nine Inch Nails’ Trent Reznor and Radiohead are doing the same with music. At some point, the paradigm shift will spit out an answer that will assign a real value to each step in the system, and some of those values will be at zero, others will be in the negative. Something will be in the positive, because I don’t think people will stop listening to music, reading, making music, or writing anytime soon. The question is how will doing it for love play out against needing to survive.
Time will tell.
About The Author
Comments